The day drifted on. Stark went to his office, to discover his prediction was right. Both his computer and Jenny’s computer were gone, along with all the files, all the paperwork. Hardly surprising. The desktops were empty. The only remaining items of any worth were the law books on the shelves.
The familiar figure of Des appeared at his door. His usual exuberance was gone. Now, a subdued solemnity. The eyes belonged to a man who had given up.
“The man of the moment,” he said, without humour.
“That’s all it is,” replied Stark. “A moment. How you bearing up?”
His question was ignored. “Walter Hill is calling a meeting at twelve noon in the conference room. But we all know what it means. We’re closing. After one hundred and fifty years, the doors are shutting. He’s making the announcement today. Then we’ll all go home.” His voice took a harsh tone. “And then we wonder how the fuck we pay the mortgage, and pay the car lease, and feed the kids! You got an answer, Jonathan?”
Stark had no answer to give. He had never been rich enough to afford a mortgage, or a car lease, or anything, for that matter. He had a brief memory of worrying about the price of a new suit for the job interview. Plus, he didn’t have kids.
“I don’t know…”
Des became indignant. “You brought trouble, Jonathan. You’re bad luck. They don’t bring a black cat on a boat. Well, sir, you’re our fucking black cat!”
He left, slamming the door shut. Stark sat in silence, shocked at those sentiments. Did people blame him? Perhaps. Such was the human condition. Blame was easy, regardless of how irrational.
He got up. He had no intention of listening to Walter Hill’s announcement. He took one last look around, left his office, and then left the building.
That night, he went to bed early. Sleep came surprisingly easy. He woke at 4.30 in the morning, alert, body trembling, bathed in sweat. He showered, changed into jeans, sweat top, trainers. He left his flat. He went downstairs to the ground floor. One of the owners liked to maintain the back common green, and kept a locker in the hall, containing gardening stuff, which was unlocked. Who, after all, would want to steal old picks and shovels? Who indeed, thought Stark, as he bundled the items into the back of his car.
The night was cold. The sky was clear, a black canvas, upon which, scattered, a thousand grains of light. He drove straight to the offices of SJPS.
He still had a key. He had no idea if the locks had been changed. If so, then he would resort to plan B, and break a window. The key turned, the main door opened, as did the inner door. The alarm beeped. He knew the code, switched it off, thankful it hadn’t been altered.
He had his gym bag. It was open, and balanced on it, the pick and the shovel. He entered the basement, a shadow amongst shadow. He switched the lights on. No one would know. No one would see. There were no windows in the basement, for obvious reasons.
He went down the stairs, stopped, got his bearings. But he remembered. The details were clear in his mind. He headed to a far corner. The striplights flickered, the air was heavy, despite the chill. If the point was to frighten, then it was working. He reached the place. Here, one wall was bare, devoid of shelving or boxes. The wall was mottled bluish-black with mould, the colour of an old bruise.
He put the bag down. The floor was old, consisting of planks of wood, brown and springy.
Stark grasped the pick handle. His arm was still sore, but not enough to restrict his movement. He raised it up, brought it down, and began the process of breaking the timbers, to the earth below.
Time passed. How much, Stark couldn’t tell. He was consumed in his work. The floorboards had been laid on a thin wooden sheeting, easy to penetrate. Below was rubble and random pieces of masonry, and then, below that, hard soil, which he broke up with the pick, and removed with the shovel.
He got down about four feet. He stopped, leaned back. He wiped the sweat from his eyes. He reached round, rummaged in his gym bag, got out a bottle of mineral water. He was parched. He glugged down half the contents, resumed his work.
He went down another foot, and then stopped again. Not because he was thirsty. He had found what he was looking for. He put the shovel to one side, bowed his head, and cried soft tears.
He made his way back to the foot of his stairs. He stopped. A figure he recognised stood, hunched and frail, leaning on the table.
“Hello, Jonathan,” said Edward Stoddart. He was wearing his familiar dark suit, clean white shirt, dark tie. Incongruous for this place of dirt and death, thought Stark.
Stark approached.
“I was going to your office,” continued Stoddart. “I saw the light under the door. What are you doing here?”
We’re nearing the end, thought Stark. Not quite. Almost. Full circle.
“We’ve met before,” he said. “Many years ago. Twenty, to be exact. You may not remember. I do, however.”
Stoddart said nothing, his face sunken and drawn in the amber glow of the lights. Like a cadaver, thought Stark.
“You were leaving my back garden. I watched you from my bedroom window. You looked up. I saw your face. I will never forget it.”
Still no response. But his eyes, thought Stark. They gleam. Like pebbles in the fire.
“That night,” said Stark, “I went downstairs to the kitchen. I had been woken by shouting. I was scared. I tried not to make a sound. Just a little boy, afraid of the dark. I opened the kitchen door. I knew something had happened. But I didn’t know what. I opened the door…”
Stoddart suddenly spoke, voice a dry rattle. “What did you see, Jonathan?”
Stark sighed. He felt hollow, drained of any emotion. Close now.
“What did I see? That’s the irony to this whole saga. I saw nothing. Emptiness. A vacant space. Nobody was there. My mother had gone. That’s the point. I never saw her again. My world had collapsed to nothing. I was abandoned in the night. Can you imagine how terrifying that would be for a child?”
Stoddart remained silent.
“I was taken into care, and then adopted. My new family loved me, and I loved them.” He gave a small smile. “Especially Mags. We lived in Eaglesham. Then my parents died, and I got my law degree, and Mags got her medical degree. And life went on. But I always wondered.”
He took a breath, as memories flooded back.
“Then Archie Willow, and everything changed again. And I lost my way. But I found it again. Do you know how?”
“Tell me.”
“A quirk of fate? Possibly. Maybe something more. I was having a coffee in some cheap place on Great Western Road. I was sitting outside. It was the beginning of summer, last year. It was my day off. My arms were sore with heaving crates. I was watching people pass. And then I saw you. Walking by, without a care. I saw your face, and knew it was you. The same man who left my mother’s house all those years ago. I followed you. You came to this building. The rest was easy. I established you worked here, that you were a senior partner. I know all about you. But I had to know more.”
“And so you applied to join my firm,” said Stoddart.
“Eventually. I thought, if I confronted you, you might give me an answer.”
Stoddart sagged back, sat stiffly on the bottom steps.
“I’m tired, Jonathan. And I’m dying.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket, and pulled out a sealed envelope.
“I wrote this for you, to try and make you understand.” He blinked, rubbed his eyes.
Is he crying?
“I loved your mother. She loved me. But it was complicated. I was married. I couldn’t leave my wife. Our affair had to be a secret. But matters were becoming more difficult. I promised your mother I would always look after her. Financially. Both she….” he looked up, fastened his gaze on Stark, “…and our son.”
Stark’s throat was dry. His heart thumped hard in his chest. He could think of nothing to say.
“You’re my son, Jonathan.”
A silence fell, save Stoddart’s laboured breathing. He waved the letter weakly. “This was to be given to you when I died. But here we are.” He coughed, took another wheezing breath, continued. “I have been watching you all these years. But there was nothing I could do. So much time had passed. I knew you had joined Willow’s firm, and I was glad. When you were shot, I despaired. But you lived. And then, when you applied to join this firm, my heart soared. You would come here, and I could watch over you. And I thought, perhaps, if I told you the truth, you might come to love me. But I was scared. Scared you might reject me, after such a length of silence.”
Stark stepped forward. “I would never reject you…”
Stoddart raised a hand. “But that night. I swear I don’t know what happened to your mother. We argued, yes. She wanted me to leave my wife. I refused. I was scared. It was late. I said we would talk in the morning. I said I had to go back to the office, to clear up paperwork. But I didn’t go there. I went home. I never saw her again. I swear, Jonathan, I have no idea what happened to your mother.”
“But I do,” answered Jonathan. The images of his dream reared up, horrifyingly clear. “Her body, or what’s left of it, is buried here, in this room. In this basement. I know what she did that evening.”
Stoddart stared at Stark, puzzled.
“She came here, to this building, because she thought that’s where you were, because that’s where you said you were going. And it was here she was murdered.”